


Done With Care

by justkisa



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stevan cooks for Matija. Matija figures something out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Done With Care

**Author's Note:**

> **1)** Set the day after the Chelsea game. 
> 
> **2)** My knowledge of Serbian and Montenegrin cuisine comes mostly via extensive Googling. It is possible (extremely probable) that I have made mistakes. If I have, please feel free to point them out to me!
> 
> **Acknowledgements:** Thank you to everyone on twitter who helped me try and figure out an appropriate diminutive for Matija  <3<3.

Matija wakes up to the muted chirping of his phone. He doesn’t open his eyes but he rolls toward the sound and fumbles his hand over his nightstand until he finds his phone. He flops onto his back and squints up at it. There are two texts from Stevan. _I’m coming to get you_ \- followed by - _so get out of bed and put on some clothes_. 

He drops his phone on the bed and goes to get dressed. He thinks about taking a shower but it’s only Stevan so instead he grabs whatever’s closest and gets dressed.

***

When he gets into Stevan’s car he says, “I might’ve been awake.”

“Sure,” Stevan says rolling his eyes. He’s wearing a battered, white baseball hat.

“I might’ve been,” Matija says, reaching out to push Stevan’s hat down over his eyes, “You don’t know.”

Stevan squirms away and shoves his hat back up. It ends up slightly askew but he doesn’t straighten it. “Yeah,” he says, as he starts the car, “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Stevan always has music from home on in the car. It’s nice. Matija leans his head against the window and waits for Stevan to tell him where they’re going. “So,” Stevan says as he pulls away from the curb, “Are you hungry?”

He is, though not in any great way, but he says, “Sure.”

“All right,” Stevan says. He doesn’t ask Matija what he wants or where he wants to go but Matija doesn’t mind. He’s happy to let Stevan figure it out. He looks out the window into the dull, gray light of the day. Most days Manchester has a certain, gloomy kind of light. Today is no different. He watches the streets slip by and listens to Stevan sing along with the music. He’s a terrible singer but the sound of his off-key murmuring is as familiar and comforting as the music itself.

They end up in a small, worn-looking cafe. There are only three other people inside, an older man at the counter reading a paper and two kids in the corner who look young enough that they should probably be in school.

When they sit down, Stevan takes off his hat and tosses it carelessly onto the battered, dingy tabletop. The way he wears his hair now, the shortest he’s had it since Matija’s known him, makes him look pared down, like everything extra has been carved away until only the raw core of him remains. Matija’s not sure he likes it. 

They don’t talk while they eat except for Stevan asking him to pass the sugar. He puts a disgusting amount of it in his coffee. Matija wrinkles his nose. Stevan rolls his eyes and takes a pointed sip. 

Matija knows the silence is for him. He doesn’t like to talk after games like yesterday’s but he doesn’t like to be alone. Stevan’s always been good at giving him the kind of company he needs.

***

When they get back in the car, he finally asks, “So, where are we going?”

“The store,” is all Stevan says. 

It turns out he means Tesco. “Get a basket,” he says as they come through the doors. Matija does then Stevan grabs his wrist and pulls him toward produce.

“What’re--” Matija says.

“I need onions,” Stevan says.

Matija trails after him and watches him frown down at onions. “Onions?” he says. Stevan waves distractedly at him then grabs a bag of onions and drops it in Matija’s basket. 

Matija wanders after Stevan as they meander up and down the aisles. They get a few looks from some people but no one bothers them. The only other thing Stevan adds to the basket is a bottle of tomato juice. 

While Stevan’s peering into the meat case, Matija says, “You’re going to cook?” 

Stevan shrugs. “Yeah.” He picks up a package of beef, frowns, puts it down and picks up another. He does that a few more times before he drops a package into the basket.

“What’re you going to make?” Matija says, shifting the basket onto his arm.

Stevan smiles a little. “You’ll see. C’mon.” 

In the freezer section, he adds mashed potatoes to the basket and says with a sheepish smile, “Don’t tell my mama. I would never hear the end of it.” 

“We shouldn’t,” Matija says, half-heartedly, thinking of the earnest presentations and slick brochures they’re always getting about their nutrition.

“I know,” Stevan says. Then he smiles and says, “Let’s anyway.”

“All right,” Matija says, because he likes to see Stevan smile that way. 

When they get to the bread, Stevan stops and stares then sighs. “What?” Matija says nudging him with the basket. 

Stevan shrugs. “None of them...” He shrugs again. 

Matija leans into him so their shoulders are pressed together. He points to the one he usually gets. “That one’s all right.” 

Stevan pushes back against him and reaches out to pick up the bread and drop it into the basket. “C’mon,” he says, “Let’s go.”

At the checkout, they’re in line behind a small boy and a woman Matija assumes is his mother. He keeps sneaking looks up at them. While his mother is paying, he says, “You’re, I mean, you’re--” 

“Henry,” the woman says, “Don’t--” She stops and stares at them. 

“But, Mum, they’re--” the boy - Henry - says.

“I can see that,” his mother says faintly, “But leave them be.” 

Stevan smiles down at Henry because he’s a soft touch, especially for kids, and says, “It is all right. We do not mind.” 

They let Henry’s mother take a picture of them with him and, as Henry and his mother leave, Henry calls, “You’ll win the next one.”

“I hope so,” Stevan says but it’s quiet and half to himself. 

Matija nudges him. “We will,” he says.

***

When they get back to Stevan’s, Stevan hands him the bag of groceries and says, “Take those into the kitchen, okay?” He kicks off his shoes and walks off towards his bedroom.

Matija takes the bag and toes off his shoes. He nudges them over to tumble into the jumble of Stevan’s shoes that sprawl across the floor against the wall just inside the door. 

He makes his way back to the kitchen. The kitchen is the most lived in part of Stevan’s apartment. The rest of the apartment is oddly sterile. There’s nothing on the walls and the whole thing is decorated in a stilted, professional style that is ill-suited to Stevan. The kitchen, though, looks like someone _uses_ it, actually _lives_ in it. He puts the bag of groceries on the main counter. He’s not sure what to do with them. He has the vague idea that most of them should probably go in the refrigerator. “Stevan,” he calls, “What--”

“Yeah?” Stevan says from behind him. 

Matija leaves the groceries and turns around. Stevan’s changed. He’s wearing an old Partizan shirt that’s faded and a bit too small. There’s a hole just under the collar. Stevan steps into the kitchen. “What?” he says. He’s wearing sweats and no socks and his bare feet slap against the tiled floor.

“Ah,” Matija says, “Um.” 

“Matijica?” Stevan says, soft and concerned.

“There’s, you have, there’s a hole just,” Matija says, reaching out to press his finger to the bit of Stevan’s skin showing through his shirt, “there.”

Stevan smiles a bit sheepishly. “Yeah. But it’s--” He shrugs. “It’s comfortable, you know?”

“Yeah,” Matija says and drops his hand.

“You,” Stevan says, still smiling, “can change if you want? I’ve got some of your stuff, I think? It should be in one of the bottom drawers.”

Stevan’s room is a mess. It always is. The bed isn’t made and there are clothes everywhere. Matija opens the bottom drawer of the first dresser. In the drawer, there’s an odd collection of his clothes. There’s the blue button-down shirt that Aleks had spilled a drink on during a night out a while ago. It’s clean now, carefully folded and tucked into the corner of the drawer. The rest of the clothes are tangled together in an untidy ball. He sees socks, a training top, a hoodie, and a pair of sweats that might be his and might be Stevan’s.

He grabs the sweats and shakes them out. They look clean enough. He changes into them. He folds his jeans up and tucks them into the drawer.

When he gets back to the kitchen, there’s a pot on the stove and Stevan’s humming - he thinks it’s one of the songs that was on in the car earlier - and chopping onions. He hops up onto one of the stools at the counter and watches the slow, methodical way Stevan uses the knife. He’s concentrating so fiercely Matija’s not sure if he’s noticed Matija’s there.

He can smell the onions, pungent and sharp, and something else, warm and unctuous, underneath. He props his elbow on the counter and rests his chin in his hand, content to watch Stevan chop.

Stevan finishes chopping and looks up. “Hey,” he says and smiles. His eyes are wet. 

“You’re--” Matija says touching the corner of his own eye. 

Stevan laughs a little and rubs his eyes with his knuckles. “It’s the onions.” He shrugs. “They always do that to me.” He picks up the board with the onions on it. He turns and drops the onions into the pot on the stove. They sizzle and hiss and the kitchen fills with the rich smell of onions cooking in fat. 

Stevan stirs them for a moment then he comes and sits down across from Matija. “So,” Matija says, “Now are you going to tell me what you’re making?”

Stevan smiles a little and turns away, like he’s embarrassed. “Paprikas,” he says, just loud enough for Matija to hear.

“Paprikas?” he says, “You?” because paprikas is for his mama or his grandma cooking in their kitchens back home, it’s not for here in Stevan’s glittery modern apartment - not for Manchester. 

“I know how,” Stevan says, a bit petulant. 

“Really?” 

Stevan shoves at him. “Shut up. See if I feed you.” 

Matija rocks back away from Stevan’s hands. “You will,” he says.

Stevan rolls his eyes and gets up to stir the onions. “Maybe,” he says over his shoulder but he’s smiling and all Matija hears is _of course, I will,_ because Stevan always does. 

Stevan puts down his spoon and goes to wash his hands. While he’s drying his hands, he says, “Do you want coffee or anything,” 

“Coffee,” Matija says because Stevan makes it the proper way. Matija likes it best that way but he never does it for himself. “Not too much sugar, though, okay?” he says because Stevan always puts too much in. 

Stevan smiles, lopsided and fond, and says, “Okay, Matijica, just for you.” He goes and gets out his djezva. 

Stevan’s djezva is old and battered. Stevan had told him once that his sister had bought it just after they’d come to Belgrade. Stevan’s carried it everywhere he’s been since then. 

The smell of coffee shouldn’t mix well with the smell of the cooking onions but somehow it does. It makes Stevan’s kitchen smell like Matija remembers his mama’s smelling - makes it smell like home. 

Stevan’s movements with the djezva are quick and deft. Matija always spills when he tries. Stevan makes it look easy. He’s tried to teach Matija but it never works. Matija can never match Stevan’s easy grace. Besides Stevan’s coffee always tastes better - even if he always puts in too much sugar. 

Stevan slides a cup across the counter. “Here.” 

Matija leaves it to cool. Stevan’s used the cups Matija bought him back in Florence. There had been an unfortunate incident, involving several of their teammates, which had ended in broken dishes - a lot of broken dishes. Matija’d bought the cups as an apology. 

He watches Stevan pour water over the onions and takes a sip of coffee. It has exactly the right amount of sugar. 

“All right?” Stevan says when he turns around.

“Yeah.” 

Stevan leans against the counter next to the stove and crosses his arms over his chest. “You don’t have to stay in here. Go. Watch something or whatever.”

“It’s all right,” Matija says. He’s perfectly content to stay here in the fragrant kitchen and watch Stevan chop and stir. Given a choice between being where Stevan is and being where Stevan isn’t, he’ll always pick where Stevan is. 

Stevan smiles and leans over to pick up his coffee. He takes a sip. “Okay.” 

So Matija sips his coffee and watches Stevan chop meat and stir his pot. He puts the meat into the pot along with spices Matija recognizes from his mama’s kitchen shelves. The scent of them blooms, bold and familiar, and he can almost imagine he’s sitting in his mama’s kitchen. 

Stevan puts a lid on the pot and says, “C’mom. It has to cook for a while.” 

They meander into the living room and Matija slumps down onto the sofa. The sofa is the best part of Stevan’s living room, well, maybe the television is, but the sofa’s Matija’s favorite part. It’s wide and comfortable and covered in soft, gray material. He likes to tuck himself into the corner because Stevan will drag over the ottoman and sit tucked against his side. He does that now, settles right against Matija’s side and hooks his ankle over Matija’s calf. He’s warm and he smells faintly of onions and the soap he’s used as long as Matija’s known him. 

He elbows Matija and says, “What do you want to watch?”

Matija settles deeper into the sofa. “Dunno. No football though.” 

Stevan turns on the TV and starts flipping through the channels. He settles on what Matija thinks is one of the Fast and the Furious movies. He’s not sure and he doesn’t care enough to ask. 

He finds himself drifting in and out but never quite falling asleep. Stevan comes and goes, moving between the sofa and the kitchen. The smell of the paprikas curls out of the kitchen until the living room smells of cooking meat and paprika and _home_. 

He falls asleep eventually and when he wakes up it’s to Stevan shaking him and saying, “Matijica, c’mon, time to eat.” He opens his eyes and Stevan’s right there, smiling at him. “Hey,” Stevan says, soft and unbearably fond, “Matijica, there you are.” 

He’s so close Matija can smell the lingering scent of coffee on his breath, so close he can feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek. He wants - he’s not sure what - but the want is like an aching, clawing thing in his chest. He reaches up and touches the corner of Stevan’s mouth. The soft, warm feel of Stevan’s skin under his fingertips doesn’t sate that wanting feeling. He traces the upward curve of Stevan’s smile. 

“Matija,” Stevan says, quick, like he’s gasping for air. He turns and Matija’s fingers slide along his mouth. “Matija,” he says again. _Matija_ not _Matijica_ and that seems right. Matijica is for when Stevan teases him, for when he feeds him and takes care of him, for when he’s hurt and the only thing that steadies him is Stevan’s touch and the sound of his voice curling around the name his mama and papa call him. It’s not for this, though, not for this strange, intense moment that feels so important even if he’s not sure why. “Matija,” Stevan says again, so low Matija feels it more than hears it. 

Matija slides his fingers along Stevan’s cheek, fits his hand along his jaw. “Stevan,” he says, “Stevan,” then he tips up and presses his mouth to Stevan’s. Stevan’s mouth is soft and still against his. He tastes of the bitter richness of coffee glossed with sugar. Matija waits - his mouth to Stevan’s - for Stevan. 

And then Stevan kisses him, moving his mouth slowly and carefully against Matija’s. “Matija,” he says again and Matija’s never heard him say his name like that. Then he’s curving his hand around Matija’s cheek, tucking it under his head and pulling Matija up into a kiss that’s open and desperate and edged with something close to fierceness. 

When he’s done, Matija can’t breathe. Stevan rests his forehead against Matija’s and sweeps his thumb along his jaw. “Matija,” he says, “This is--you-- You want this?” and Matija kisses him because it’s a silly question. Of course he _wants_ this. He wants to be where Stevan is, wants to be as close to him as he can get.

Stevan laughs a little. “Okay,” he says, “Okay.” He straightens up and offers Matija his hand. “C’mon.” Matija takes his hand and lets him pull him up. Stevan laces their fingers together and tugs him forward. 

Stevan’s always puling him where he wants him to go - his hand around Matija’s wrist or tangled in his shirt - but never like this, his palm warm against Matija’s, their fingers tight together. 

It takes him a moment to realize Stevan’s leading him towards the kitchen. “Stevan,” he says because that’s not what he expected and it’s not at all what he _wants_. 

Stevan laughs and squeezes his hand. “I cooked, Matija, so we--we are going to eat.”

“Stevan,” he says again.

Stevan turns and kisses him, light and quick. “It’s all right,” he says, “I’m not going anywhere. Promise. There’s no rush.” He kisses him again and says with a smile, “Come eat with me, Matija.” And something settles inside him. Stevan’s not going anywhere. Stevan’s staying right where he always does - near Matija. 

“Okay,” he says. He nudges into Stevan. “It’d better not be burned or anything.” 

“Hey,” Stevan squawks, “I can cook. It’ll be fine.”

“We’ll see,” says Matija.

They eat in the kitchen. Matija sits at the counter and watches Stevan spoon paprikas over mashed potatoes. Stevan sets a bowl down in front of him and says, “Do you want water or--”

“Water’s fine,” he says. Fragrant steam curls up from the bowl. It smells right, redolent with the rich sweetness of onions, the dark earthiness of beef, and the spiciness of paprika. Stevan sets a bottle of water at his elbow and sits down across from him.

He waits for Stevan to take a bite first. Stevan rolls his eyes. “Go on then,” he says.

Matija takes a bite and it’s good. It tastes like paprikas should. He swallows and says, “Not bad.”

“Oh?” Stevan says.

Matija takes another bite. “Not like my mama’s but not bad.” 

Stevan smiles a little and looks away. “It’s not like my mama’s either,” he says and he sounds wistful and faraway. 

He could ask Stevan if he misses home but he already knows the answer. Missing home is as much a part of football as the ball and the grass of the pitch. He’s missed home for what seems like forever. And Stevan’s missed his for still longer. 

He takes another bite. “It’s pretty good, though,” he says.

Stevan looks back at him and smiles, wide and bright. “And you thought I couldn’t make it.” 

Matija shrugs and keeps eating. Stevan stares at him for a moment, still smiling, and then he goes back to eating.

He doesn’t miss home as much, he thinks, when Stevan’s close. When Stevan’s close, Manchester - everything - is better. 

When they’re done eating, Stevan takes the dishes and puts them in the sink. Matija rests his chin in his hand and watches him putter around - putting away the leftovers, filling the pot with water. 

Then Stevan turns to him, this soft, secret sort of smile on his face, a smile Matija’s never seen before. “So,” he says, “We--” He stops.

Matija doesn’t know what happens now, doesn’t know what comes after the _we_. What he knows is that he wants to kiss Stevan’s small, secretive smile, that he doesn’t care what comes after the _we_ as long as it involves Stevan being close to him. So he just says, “Yes,” and waits. 

“Okay,” Stevan says, “Okay,” and holds out his hand. “Come with me.”

Matija gets up and takes his hand. “Okay,” he says and lets Stevan tug him forward toward whatever’s going to happen next.

***  
 _”And cooking done with care is an act of love.”  
 **Craig Claiborne**_  



End file.
